


Bucky Barnes Versus Sarah Rogers' Apple Cake

by fedzgurl, rayskeptic



Series: After The Bombs [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes has it bad, Bucky Barnes-centric, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friendship/Love, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, literally 70 years of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:39:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedzgurl/pseuds/fedzgurl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayskeptic/pseuds/rayskeptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes learned two crucial, lifelong lessons during the summer of 1941.  The first was that he absolutely hated apple cake.  The second was that he loved Steve Rogers enough to make up for it.</p>
<p>(This is a companion fic to my much longer work <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5228426/chapters/12057035">'After the Bombs'</a>, but it can be read as a stand-alone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bucky Barnes Versus Sarah Rogers' Apple Cake

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of a scene from my larger canon-divergent AU "After the Bombs," which was initially supposed to have a funny scene about Bucky getting accustomed to modern foods (Bucky Barnes vs. Vegan Baked Goods) but somehow turned into a blackhole of feels. As it says in the summary though, you don't have to read the entirety of AtB for this to make sense, especially since the majority of the story happens before Zola's train, anyway. Just imagine that the final part takes place in a AU where Bucky was already cleared from any events related to the WS.
> 
> Or, if you're really feeling motivated, you can read [After the Bombs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5228426/chapters/12057035) first and get to see a version of the MCU where Bucky never fell off the train.

 

 

**June 1941**

 

The first two weeks of June in 1941 had been the busiest and most challenging of Bucky Barnes’ young life.  It hadn’t exactly been a surprise when his best friend’s Ma had finally succumbed to her tuberculosis infection: Sarah Rogers had been the strongest woman that Bucky had ever had the good fortune of knowing, but she was still human - and a thin, sickly human at that, who had spent so much of her life worked too hard with resources stretched too thin.  When she’d started showing the consumptive symptoms, everyone who’d known her had known that it was only a matter of time before she was gone.

But while Sarah’s death had been expected, it hadn’t made any of the ordeal easier on her Steve.  Steve, whose heart was too damned big not to have been breaking for his ma ever since she’d started deteriorating, and whose head was too damned stubborn to accept any of the Barnes family’s help in the days that followed, good as their intentions had been.

Luckily, after his dearly departed mother there was still one person in the world who was persistent enough to deal with Steve Rogers’ pigheadedness, and that was James Buchanan Barnes.

It had taken a hell of a lot of pestering and then even more work in the days that followed, but after the funeral was finally paid for and performed Steve had _finally_ agreed to move into the Barnes’ brownstone in Park Slope.  That done, it was just a matter of sorting through and moving his meager belongings, convincing the crooked landlord of his old tenement to void the lease on the grounds that it had been in Sarah’s name (preferably without getting arrested for punching the old blowhard out when he put up a fuss about it), and making a place for a second grown man in Bucky’s shoebox of a room at his parent’s house.

Of course, because it involved the two of them, none of it was remotely easy.  The landlord had been just as big a piece of work as Bucky had been afraid he would be, going so far as to try to tell Steve that breaking the lease wouldn’t be legally binding unless Sarah Rogers signed for it.  By the grace of God Steve had left without breaking the bastard’s nose, although it had been a close call, and the yelling and cussing he’d done hadn’t helped his case.  In the end, with his dad’s help and his ma’s promise that Steve would never hear a word about it, Bucky had been able to scrape together the fifteen dollar fee necessary to get out of the contract, and dropped it at the tenant office on his own one evening after work.  If Steve ever suspected anything he never brought it up, and by the end of the second week of June they’d packed the apartment into a couple of orange crates, a beat-up old trunk, and Sarah’s ancient suitcase, then carted them all out of his shitty rear-facing tenement into George Barnes’ waiting F-37.  While it was a tight squeeze, they’d managed to fit everything into Bucky’s tiny bedroom on the third floor of his parents’ house, and had gotten through all of it without Steve having a single asthma attack.  

Bucky knew better than to hope for smooth sailing ahead of them, but he was thankful for the knowledge that his best friend would at least have a roof over his head that was full of people who cared about him.  Despite Steve’s obvious and understandable melancholy regarding the events leading up to it, the selfish part of Bucky couldn’t help but enjoy his even more constant presence in his life as they settled into their new living situation together.  They had a couple of minor arguments, as two guys in a relationship as close as theirs were wont to do, but by and large life went on.

Things didn’t really come to a head until the early-morning hours of June 15th.  Bucky’s alarm went off at its usual 5:30 time, and between his quick reflexes and Steve’s shitty ear he was able to cut the bell before it woke him as well.  Bucky eased his way out of bed, straining his eyes to make out Steve’s form on the floor then taking care to step over the stubborn lump as carefully and quietly as possible: being Steve, he had of course refused to take Bucky’s bed from him - Buck considered it a victory that he’d convinced the little punk to alternate nights, at least, since he could only imagine how terrible the ratty, thin couch cushions on the floor were going to be for Stevie’s crooked back.  

Nevermind his lungs when the winter hit and the cold settled in.

But that would be an issue Bucky would have to start addressing once they started getting closer to fall - for the moment he had enough on his plate wandering around his room in the dark and trying to get dressed without either waking or trampling on Steve.  Somehow he managed, and within a few minutes was stumbling downstairs to pack a lunch and get some coffee in him before hurrying out the door for work.

Bucky had been working at a canning factory near the docks since the day after he’d graduated from Washington High, so his morning routine once he hit the kitchen was so second-nature that it required no conscious thought.  He started a pot of coffee on the range as he slopped together a Spam sandwich from his and Steve’s groceries at the corner of his ma’s pantry, then poured the still-boiling coffee into his thermos, sipping carefully at the last dregs and burning his tongue for his troubles.  A banana and a couple of pieces of penny candy out of the sack he kept hidden on the top shelf behind the lard canister went into his lunch bag before he wiped down the mess, choked down a piece of dry bread and a cup of milk, then hopped a trolley on Union Street towards South Brooklyn.

The warm, humid morning air smacked him in the face as Bucky stepped off the trolley, offering little relief from the heat of the cramped trolley car.  All the same, he moved along with the throng of workers now funneling towards the industrial buildings ahead, coming more into himself as he nodded at familiar faces and side-stepped lollygaggers that apparently weren’t worried about the shift whistles they all had to catch.

He only half-listened to the newsie shouting headlines at the mouth of the Union Street Subway entrance, but did spare the kid a quick glance when he got slowed up by a flood of men making their way out of the station.  His intention had been to try to catch the score of the Dodger’s road game the day before - but instead it was the date printed across the top of the page that caught his eye.  Buck stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, totally ignoring the other workers who cussed him out as they weaved around him on their way towards the rows of factories in front of them as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.  There were only fifteen days left in June, which meant there were only nineteen days left until Stevie’s birthday.  Steve’s first birthday without his ma around.

His ma, who’d been baking Steve’s favorite cake for the occasion for as long as Bucky had known him.

A birthday cake shouldn’t have been _that_ big of a deal, really; between his parents and his three sisters Bucky’s own Ma made birthday cakes half the months of the year, but Steve’s birthday had always been special.  Unlike the yellow and chocolate cakes that all of the Barnes kids loved, Sarah Rogers had had a special apple cake recipe that Bucky knew damned well she put her heart and soul (and a good chunk of her weekly pay, he was willing to bet) into making for her boy every year, and it was no secret that it was Steve’s favorite food in the world.  And it wasn’t as if Bucky could simply ask Winifred to make an apple cake for Steve’s birthday – his parents were already sacrificing enough to have taken another young man into their already overcrowded house, and besides, no one in the house outside of Steve and Bucky had ever eaten the damned thing.

There was only one solution, Bucky realized with a start, both in response to the epiphany and because some jerk in a tizzy about catching the morning bell couldn’t watch where he was damned-well going… If Steve was gonna have his cake, Bucky was gonna have to have to figure out a way to make it for him.  The problem was: Bucky’d never baked a single thing in his life, much less a cake with a secret recipe.  Between his ma and the girls there had never been a reason for Bucky to spend any more time in the kitchen than was required for him to wash the dishes when it was his turn.  And while he’d gotten pretty self-sufficient with buying and packing his own lunches over the past couple of years (it seemed like the least he could do, still living at home with his parents, especially now that Steve had joined them under their already-cramped roof), Bucky didn’t know the first thing about recipe hunting.

But time was of the essence, and Bucky had never been one to back down from a challenge; especially not one that was for the benefit of his best pal in the world.

Bucky went through his day on autopilot, packing and stacking and inspecting crates of tinned beans while his mind wandered, trying to work out how the hell he was going to figure out how to bake a cake in under three weeks’ time.  The first step, as best as he could tell, was going to be to figure out a recipe to follow in the first place; of course, Bucky had no access to any of Sarah Rogers’ cookbooks, but he did know where Winifred Barnes kept her not-inconsiderable stack of them.  It didn’t solve his problem of not knowing the first thing to look for in telling one recipe apart from the other… but he remembered well enough that Sarah’s cake had included apples, raisins, and spices, and had been moist and dense enough that it hadn’t needed to be frosted but still lasted long enough that Steve could eat on it for the entire week of his birthday.  Bucky sincerely hoped that he was a smart enough guy to have figured it out from there.

That hope dwindled later that night, when he realized with dismay that there were no fewer than seven different apple cake recipes in his ma’s collection, and Bucky couldn’t begin to tell what the hell each of them meant.  After a moment of panic (midnight was too-damned late for him to be figuring out recipes for baked goods, especially when he was skulking around in his pajamas and trying not to wake the rest of the house up), the differences began to make themselves known.  Mrs. Rogers’ cake had never had nuts in it, or any type of crumble over the top, a fact that eliminated four of the choices right off the bat.  That narrowed his options down to two recipes that, on further study, were actually the same, and another that called for more eggs and butter than Bucky could have ever imagined Steve’s ma having the money to sink into a single dish.

The final recipe seemed like a real possibility, though, provided Bucky didn’t bother with the icing that it called for.  He transcribed the directions with a smile, carefully writing down each of the ingredients: none of them seemed so special that he worried about being able to find them in one of the local markets, so it was just a matter of paying up for the items on the list and making a trial cake to see if he was on the right track.

He’d been half-right, Bucky realized the next day as he methodically made his way through his ingredients list at the grocer.  Fruit was easy enough to come by: raisins were always on the shelf and cheap, and Bruno’s had whole displays set out of strawberries and blueberries and peaches, with most of them marked down to bargain prices.  But apples, apparently, were an entirely different beast; Bucky actually gawked for a solid thirty seconds at the sign listing the sad, beat-up selection as being two dollars for a half-bushel, then made his way to the front to make sure that it hadn’t been a mistake.

“Of course it’s right, kid,” the shop owner had replied incredulously.  “Apple season ain’t until the beginning of September, we had to ship those all the way from Washington State.  You won’t find fresh apples anywhere else outside’a the city, and I guarantee you they’ll be askin’ more for ‘em in Manhattan.”

In the end Bucky took his word for it, forking over a full extra dollar than he’d been spending on the trip for the damned apples; it meant his cigarette budget for the month was already almost gone, but as he made his way home Buck figured it wasn’t that big a loss.  It wasn’t like he could have more than a couple smokes a day without setting off Steve’s asthma at night, anyway, given how tiny the room they were sharing was.

Bucky hid his ingredients at the back of the pantry, hoping that with all of his supplies plus the recipe in hand, he wouldn’t have much trouble with baking the cake when the time came.  All the same, he knew he needed to at least give it a trial run, which meant finding a time when he could use the kitchen unnoticed and actually figure out how to make the damned thing.  That night before bed he surreptitiously set his alarm for 4:00 - despite the change in schedule, he was still able to turn the damned thing off before it woke anyone else, then he stumbled downstairs in the dark, doing his best to convince himself that it would just be a matter of following simple directions.

‘Following simple directions’ turned out to be easier said than done, though in fairness, Bucky figured he would have struggled with the recipe even during normal hours of the day.  The thing was, he was a smart enough guy: he’d always done well in school, he actually enjoyed reading and maths, and he was good enough at following directions when it came to work.  But baking, it turned out, was a different story altogether.  After no less than four times reading through the instructions, Bucky finally sighed and set the scrap of paper down on the kitchen counter, turning the oven dial to the appropriate temperature and then digging out a mixing bowl, a couple of spoons (what the hell the difference between a teaspoon versus a tablespoon was supposed to be he had no idea, but thankfully his ma had a couple of different sizes on hand in the drawer), and finally settling on a coffee mug to measure out ‘cups’ of flour and sugar.

With all of his ingredients and utensils spread out, Bucky finally started adding everything to the bowl, doing his best to follow the instructions verbatim.  After sifting all of the dry goods together and only spilling a tiny bit of it on the floor, he finally sliced in the apples and added the melted lard to the mixture, stirring as he went.  The thing was - no matter how much he stirred the bowl, there was no way to incorporate all of the flour and sugar into the mixture.  Even when he shifted the bowl around, cursing as flour puffed out of the side of the mixing bowl and powdered his pajama pants, it wouldn’t fold into the damned lard and apple slices the way the recipe indicated it would.  Bucky read over the ingredients list again, trying to figure out where he went wrong, debating if it would mess the whole thing up if he just added some more lard or milk to the bowl...

He was so frustrated by the whole ordeal that Bucky didn’t even notice the other person in the kitchen until she cleared her throat, nearly scaring him out of his skin.

“The hell, Becca?” Bucky muttered, trying his best to calm his still-racing heart and wipe the splash of flour he’d flung up on his undershirt at the same time. “You can’t go sneakin’ up on someone like that.”

“Well what the hell are you doin’ sneaking around in the kitchen at this hour?” His sister retorted, looking just as annoyed as Bucky felt.  “I thought we were gettin’ robbed or something.”

“All the more reason you shouldn’t’ve snuck in here on your own,” Bucky grumbled, turning back to the bowl and stirring again, trying to will the mess inside to start resembling something edible.  Bucky didn’t have much experience with cake batter, but he was damned sure it wasn’t supposed to look like the brown, lumpy mess that was starting to separate in the bowl on the counter.

“But seriously, what’re you doing down here so early?”  Becca pressed, stepping up closer to the counter and grabbing the recipe sheet before Bucky could hide it from her.

“I’m… baking,” Bucky responded lamely, realizing that there was no point in trying to deny it now - Rebecca could be trustworthy enough to keep his secret from Steve and the other girls, provided she had the proper incentive.

For a few moments Becca just stood in silence, looking scrutinizingly into the bowl and the general mess of a counter that Bucky stood next to before clucking her tongue.  “ _Buck_ ,” she sighed dramatically, waving the recipe clipping as she reached into one of the lowest drawers and pulled out a metal cup with a handle, “when it says a cup it means a measuring cup, not an actual _cup_ cup, you chucklehead.”

“Well how the hell was I s’posed to know that?  It’s not like…”

Before Bucky could finish his defense Becca had tsked at him and shouldered him to the side, stepping up and considering the mess in the bowl with a critical eye.  “I think we might be able to save it, we’ll just have to make the batch a hell of a lot bigger than planned.  How many apples did you get?”

“Enough for the recipe,” Bucky answered, rubbing his forehead where he felt a headache coming on.  “They’re out of season so Bruno’s had ‘em marked through the roof, and I ain’t exactly made of cash.”

Becca clucked her tongue, obviously unimpressed, before moving to the pantry and grabbing out an egg.  “Alright… we’ll just use more raisins instead.  It won’t be exactly what you had in mind,” she said, pushing Bucky away from his mess and cracking the egg into the bowl, “but it should still be edible.  What the hell inspired this brainchild?”

Bucky bit his lip for a moment, cutting himself off from complaining about the fact that there was no point to making the damned thing if it wasn’t authentic; the way Becca was going to work made it look like his first attempt was going to end up being a dud, anyway, and it wasn’t exactly as if Bucky was going to just pitch the ingredients and start over.  Their Dad’s business had done well enough over the years that the Barnes kids had never had to skip a meal, nothing like some of the kids he’d known around the rest of Brooklyn, and especially around Steve’s tenement, but things had been tight enough that he’d never bring himself to waste a pile of perfectly good food.  His first attempt was a loss, but if he could watch his sister try to save it, hopefully Bucky would learn enough to make up for it later in the week.

“Buck?”  Becca asked, looking up from the bowl with a confused frown.

“Er, it’s-” Bucky started, realizing that by stalling he was probably looking even more crazy.  “Steve’s birthday’s comin’ up in a few weeks, and his ma always made him a special cake.  I guess… I wanted to make sure he had it again this year.”

Becca scoffed as she started moving the cake batter into the tin that Bucky had already greased ahead of time.   “And you couldn’t just ask me or Ma?  Why all the secrecy?”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” Bucky answered, crossing his arms over his chest and hoping he didn’t look as ridiculous as he knew he sounded.  “And seein’ as I’m the only other one who ever had it, and - I just wanted to do this for him.  Without troubling you all even more.”

Becca popped the tin in the oven, looking like she wanted to say something more, before shaking her head and glancing up at the clock.  “Well, next time at least lemme know when you’re gonna be working on it; it’ll spare us both the headache of me tryin’ to fix your goofs.”

Bucky put a pot of coffee on as they waited for the cake to bake, which they blearily split over the next forty minutes as they cleaned up the mess he’d made of the kitchen.  Once the time was finally up Bucky pulled the tin out of the oven, trying to keep a poker face as he surveyed the results.

It was a sad, wilted mockery of what he was used to seeing at the Rogers’ house: for the most part the cake smelled correctly, but that was where the similarities to his memory ended.  The middle was oddly sunken in, while the edges looked slightly burned at first glance.  For a while they both stood at the range, looking down at the mess in front of them, before Bucky finally set his shoulders and decided to take the plunge.

“You wanna try it?”  He asked as he pulled a plate down from the cabinet, grabbing a knife out of the butcher’s block next to the stove.  The middle sunk even more as he cut into it.  “Er - it’s alright if you don’t,” he added with a wince.

“Let’s see the damage,” she answered pleasantly enough.  Her face was impressively neutral when Bucky slopped the first piece onto its plate and pushed it over before serving up his own.

Becca took her bite first, but her face was so blank as she chewed it Bucky felt his heart drop before he’d even lifted his fork off the plate.  “It’s… it’s not terrible.  For a first try,” she finally said diplomatically.

Bucky drew in a deep breath and took a bite - unlike Becca, he felt his nose scrunch in distaste immediately.  The apples were still crunchy, while all of the raisins had managed to sink to the bottom of the pan, leaving them mushed and slightly greasy with lard.  But if the texture wasn’t bad enough, it was obvious that they’d grossly underestimated the amount of sugar and spice that they’d needed to make up for all of the extra flour Bucky had started out with.

He hadn’t expected to get the recipe right on the first try - but he’d certainly hoped for something better than a lumpy, bland pan full of disappointment.

“Chin up, slugger,” Becca chuckled, punching him in the arm before turning to wash her fork in the sink.  “You can just pitch it and try again tomorrow, if you follow the directions I’m sure it’ll turn out fine.”

“I can’t just pitch it,” Bucky sighed, glaring down at his plate before stabbing the piece of cake again, more roughly than was probably necessary.  “The damned apples were so expensive that you’re lookin’ at my lunch money for the week.”

The look of sympathy on his kid sister’s face was so unnerving that Bucky turned his attention back to his plate to ignore it, stubbornly shoveling down the rest of his piece despite how disgusting it was.  He cut a second piece off and folded it up in a handkerchief to take to work with him, before realizing with a start that he had no idea where to keep the damned thing where it would be left alone and not discovered by Steve.

“I’ll make a spot for it in the pantry,” Becca said with a sigh, stepping forward and grabbing the tin out from under Bucky’s nose. “You need to make tracks if you’re gonna get to work on-time.”

He gave her a quick hug as thanks for her help, then did exactly as asked, wandering out the door and wondering how the hell he’d gone so wrong in following the recipe.

Somehow, Bucky was able to actually make it through the entire mess of a cake over the next few days without getting sick, although the mysterious can of Spam that ended up in the tin on the third day of eating nothing but apple cake was a very welcome surprise.  He made sure to pick up a bar of chocolate along with his ingredients at the store on his way home from work that evening, and handed it over to Becca the next morning as payment for her help, which was well-received until she started lecturing him on the importance of peeling apples before he chopped the damned things.

His second attempt, with Becca’s help, was better – the texture was still off, but it at least passed as a cake this time.  Their third cake was done exactly right, to the point that Becca actually ate her entire slice for breakfast on the morning that they finished it; but it still wasn’t Sarah Rogers’ cake.  Bucky glared at it as he finished his own piece, realizing that he was going to have to start from scratch with a new recipe: he couldn’t blame his own ineptitude anymore, he just didn’t have the right damned base.

His sore attitude about the whole thing continued into his lunch hour, when Bucky sat in his usual corner off of the main work-floor in the factory, glaring at the wall as he methodically chewed his god-damned hunk of god-damned cake.

“Your girl learnin’ to cook, Barnes?”  A familiar, amused voice asked to his left, breaking through the cloud of Bucky’s sulk.

Bucky glanced over, raising his eyebrows in question as he made eye contact with Walter Rooks, one of the older workers in the factory.  It wasn’t uncommon for him to be approached by one of his fellow co-workers – Bucky was well known on the floor, for having been one of the few who started as young as he did but still had a high school diploma.  Most of the other men had him pegged for a manager one day; between his work ethic and his relationship with the grunts Bucky knew that the higher-ups likely did as well, but he made sure to keep his nose down about it and keep making a good show of himself, trusting that it would eventually happen in due time.

Rooks just chuckled at Bucky’s obvious confusion.  “I know the look, kid – I remember when my Elsie first started sending treats in my lunches… it’s a helluva way for a gal to show her interest in her man, but when she’s still in the learnin’ process,” he let out a low whistle, biting into the sandwich he’d dug out of his own lunch pail.  “Els found out my favorite cookie was snickerdoodles, I prolly ate three dozen gritty duds before she finally figured the recipe out,” he shook his head fondly, before adding ruefully, “the things we do for love, right?”

Bucky’s appetite had already been off from the loathing he felt over the cake, but hearing Walter’s words made what he had eaten sit heavy in his stomach as he put it all together.  Of course it was a reasonable enough conclusion for the man to come up with, to assume that Bucky kept eating the same hateful thing day in and day out because his sweetheart had made it for him.

His guts rolled as a mean little voice in Bucky’s head pointed out how uncomfortably close to the truth Rooks was getting, even though he had the roles reversed.

“Anyway,” Walter added, shoving the last of his sandwich in his mouth and closing his pail with an air of finality, “chin up, Barnes; it’ll get better soon, then it’ll all be worth it for both’a’ya.”

Bucky nodded in acknowledgement as he forced himself to finally swallow the bite he’d been chewing, then raised what was left of the slab in a mock salute.  “Thanks, sir” he added, forcing a smile onto his face as Rooks snorted over the title and finally made his way back towards the floor, leaving Bucky to himself again.  The smile slid off of his face as soon as he was sure the older man was gone for good, and Bucky turned back to the wall, frowning as he finally let his thoughts tumble down the path Rooks had already started him down.

The fact was, Bucky had known for years that he loved Steve - he was far and away his best friend but there was more to it than that; more to it than Bucky really let himself dare to think about.  Usually he was able to keep a lid on it, but over the past month, even he had to admit that his feelings and actions might be getting out of hand.  He blamed it on how much Steve had lost in such a short period, and on their close proximity and Bucky’s desire to make things better for his friend, but now that he really paid attention to how he’d been acting, it was pretty clear to see that his actions were more than a little nutty.  He had no intention of stopping them, honestly: he’d come this far already, so he’d be damned before he gave up and left Steve without his cake.  

All the same, if Bucky was honest with himself, he knew that his feelings for Steve could never go beyond what they were now - or at least not so that anyone could tell.  That might have been the biggest bitch of it all: Rooks said that once the cake was right everything would get better from there.  But the reality was, for all of the things that Bucky could do to make Steve happy, they’d never progress beyond being best pals.

He startled as the lunch whistle sounded above him, indicating that it was time to get back on the floor, then crammed the last of the cake into his mouth, grimacing as he choked it down with what was left of the cold dregs of coffee at the bottom of his thermos.

Despite how much the lunchtime revelation had shaken him, Bucky continued to agonize over apple cake recipes during all of his available free time over the course of the following week, trying to work out how the hell the subtle differences in ingredients changed each cake, and which would be closest to the elusive recipe he was chasing.  Becca’s brilliant idea to try an apple nut cake without the nuts didn’t work, and the Wartime apple cake in the church cookbook was too bland.  Irish apple cake was tasty enough… but it still wasn’t right.

Even worse - the last week of June had already snuck up on him, and Bucky was quickly running out of recipes to experiment with.  He’d gone so far as to dig a couple of recipe books out of the beat-up old bookshop he usually dropped pocket change on pulp novels at, but as he and Becca sat at the kitchen table drowsily flipping through pages of desserts, Buck started to lose hope.

“I’m either gonna turn into a damned apple cake, or buy Bruno’s out of all the available apples in Brooklyn before I pull this off,” he groaned, too tired and frustrated to care about how dramatic the bellyaching was.  It just didn’t make any sense - they’d tried so many different combinations of ingredients, and he’d spent so damned much money on butter and fresh apples… even if she got it right every time, Buck had no idea how Mrs. Rogers had managed to afford Steve’s cake every year, especially during the leanest years of the depression.  He’d been too young to entirely understand his friend’s situation, but Bucky had remembered how odd it seemed that the Rogers seemed to live off of oats and canned milk,  and doubted he would ever forget the way his ma would pile Steve’s plate higher than any of the rest of them whenever he stayed with the Barnes for dinner.  And in all likelihood the apples at the time would’ve been even more expensive, considering how tight gas rations were - it just didn’t make sense to blow that kinda money on a single cake, especially if it was the only fresh fruit they had for the month.

The thought had barely rolled through Bucky’s head before he realized his mistake.

“Applesauce!”

“What’re you cussin’ about now?” Becca asked peevishly, rubbing her eyes as she flipped the cover shut on the book she’d been perusing.

“No, I mean,” Bucky started, dropping his book to the side and church cookbook in front of him, flipping to the desserts section.  “That’s where I’ve had it all wrong,” he continued, tapping his finger against the page with a wild grin as he looked over the recipe in front of him.  “I should’ve been usin’ applesauce instead of the fresh things from the start.  This time of year it’s way cheaper, plus it saves on oil and sugar.”

Becca couldn’t come up with any ideas as to why it wouldn’t work, so that night Bucky stopped on his way home from work to pick a couple of cans up, silently praying to anyone willing to listen that he’d finally figured the secret out.

Bucky was able to put the cake together largely on his own the next morning, although he was grateful to have Becca around to box his ears and keep him from checking the oven too often.

“Cool down, Buck,” she sighed, sounding disturbingly like their mother.  “You keep peekin’ at it and the damned thing’s never gonna bake - go get dressed for work or somethin’.”

Badly as he wanted to argue with her, Bucky actually took the advice.  The last thing he needed was to ruin another batch of ingredients cuz he couldn’t keep his wig on.  He crept quietly back up to his bedroom, barely avoiding Steve on the floor as he grabbed up his work clothes and changed in the dark, pausing just long enough in the bathroom to pull a comb through his hair a couple times before making his way back down to the kitchen.

Becca, bless her, had already taken the finished product out of the oven for him, and was sitting and sipping coffee as she thumbed through a magazine, pointedly ignoring the tin beside her.  Bucky held his breath as he approached the table, peering over the side of the tin cautiously, only to find that the thing looked exactly as he remembered it was supposed to.  Not wanting to jinx himself, he cut a couple of slices first, holding his tongue from bragging until he’d actually had his first bite.

Corny as it was, he nearly cried… they might as well have been back in the stained old kitchen in the Rogers’ tenement, sitting around Sarah’s beat up old kitchen table.  

“Got it?” Becca asked softly, looking up at him with her eyebrows raised.

Bucky had to clear his throat, choking the bite down around the embarrassing lump in his throat as she thankfully took a bite of her own and left him be.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he finally said thickly, putting three stars next to the recipe in the book before shoveling down the rest of his slice for breakfast.

He was still nauseatingly sick of baked goods by the time he’d finished the pan on the third, but Bucky still walked home with a spring in his step once the last bell of his shift went off: he’d have a free Friday because of the holiday, his surprise for Steve was all set to go, and even better - it would be an entire year before he even had to think about fuckin’ apple cake again.

Bucky woke up at his usual pre-dawn hour on the morning of the fourth of July, and could have cried when he took the final cake out of the oven: partially out of pride, because the damned thing looked nearly perfect and had gone together like he actually knew what he was doing, but mostly out of relief that he wouldn’t have to even think about apple cake for another twelve months.  He wrapped the tin in a clean dishcloth and hid it on the top shelf of the pantry in the kitchen, then cleaned up and snuck back into his bedroom before anyone else in the house had stirred, settling down onto the couch cushions on the floor (he’d fought Steve like hell the night before, insisting that the punk get the bed on his birthday) with a small smile as his friend continued to snore like a damned buzzsaw in the pre-dawn light filtering through their tiny window.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of parades and family and block barbeques, as Bucky did his damndest not to act suspicious every time someone brought up Steve’s birthday or he caught his friend’s eye.  Once dinner was finally over and the sun was beginning to sink huge and red towards the horizon, Bucky made his way back into the house, packing up the cake and a couple bottles of beer in his ma’s beat-up old picnic basket and then cornering Steve in the yard, ignoring the knowing smile that Becca shot his way as he did.

“Hey pal,” he murmured, feeling weirdly shy when Steve turned away from the conversation he’d been having with Ruthie and gave Bucky a confused look, his eyes flicking between the picnic basket in Bucky’s hand and the guilty look that he couldn’t quite keep off of his face. “I, uh… I got us a good spot to watch the fireworks tonight, but it’s kinda a hike - we oughta start making our way there if we’re gonna make it before the show starts.”

Steve frowned, looking for a moment like he was going to turn Bucky down, leaving Bucky feeling like he might hurl up the dinner he’d barely finished a couple of hours prior.  He’d gone to all of the damned trouble of planning out and preparing Steve’s birthday present, never once thinking that he might not even want to celebrate with Bucky in the first place.

Instead, Steve’s eyes flicked to the picnic basket again, before glancing back up at Bucky’s with a hint of a smile.  “Alright Buck,” he finally agreed, turning back to the girls to bid them goodnight before falling into step with Bucky.  “Lead the way.”

They made their way leisurely down Atlantic Avenue, shooting the shit and pretending like the picnic basket wasn’t looming between them like a big, awkward elephant.  

Steve moving out of his old tenement meant that the two of them had lost the rooftop that they’d spent years sneaking onto to watch fireworks from, but Bucky had planned for that, too, making nice with one of the girls who worked in the office at the canning factory, who also happened to rent a room in Stuyvesant. Much like the Rogers’ old building, the place was something of a dump, and lacked any real access to the rooftop - but Steve and Bucky had grown up crawling out of rickety fire escapes and shimmying onto dodgy landings.  Plus, it afforded them some privacy, as they were the only two idiots in the immediate vicinity crazy enough to risk life and limb for the view.

They were early enough that the sun hadn’t set yet, so they got comfortable in the corner of the roof that promised to offer the best view, shooting the shit about nothing as they watched the New York skyline go from blood red to purple to finally the velvety-blue that was as dark as the light pollution would allow it.  For a while, Bucky let his concern over the birthday cake go: it was nice, sharing a quiet bit of time like this.  Despite the fact that he saw Steve every day now, it was odd for them to be alone outside of when they were sleeping; there were too many bodies in too little space in the house to allow for it, and he hadn’t realized how much he really missed spending time with Steve until that moment.

Finally, the fire escapes around them began to fill with people, indicating that starting time for the show was drawing near.  Bucky reached behind him, digging the cake pan out of the picnic basket and unwrapping it, then setting it down beside Steve, who at least had the kindness to look surprised by it.

“I, uh - I hope it didn’t turn out too bad,” Bucky said self-consciously, pushing the tin towards Steve when he made no move to take any of the pre-sliced cake from it.  “I did my best to make it right, and Becca helped a little.”

Steve smiled at that, still silent as he grabbed a hunk of cake out of the tin, lifting it to his nose and taking a sniff.  “Apple spice?” he asked quietly, still looking out at the skyline.

“Yeah,” Bucky responded, barely breathing as he waited for Steve to try the damned thing.  “I mean, it’s your birthday, after all.”

The bright-eyed grin that Steve finally turned toward him made all of the frustration that Bucky had felt over baking the damned cake completely worth it, and when he finally bit into the cake with a happy hum, Bucky was able to release the breath that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.  

“God, Buck,” Steve mumbled thickly, taking another bite as soon as he’d swallowed the first. “Hurry up and get yourself some, before I get sick tryin’ to eat it all.”

While having another slice of the god damned apple cake was one of the last things on Earth that Bucky actually wanted to do, he took a slice all the same - in part to appease Steve for his birthday, and in part to keep his hands busy.  He had barely finished scooping his piece out when a shrill shriek tore through the night sky, pulling their attention out to where a trail of light ascended over Navy Yard.  A second later it exploded into a huge white fountain of sparks, prompting a loud cheer from the crowds that had gathered around the neighborhood as the sound of the first explosion reached them.

The show was well and good, as it was every year, but Bucky couldn’t quite keep his eyes on the sky, finding them constantly drifting back to where Steve sat on his right.  It was mesmerizing, watching him continue to smile and pick contentedly at the cake Buck had fretted over so much, as the fireworks show lit his pale skin and hair in different shades of blue and red and gold.

Bucky wanted to lean over and kiss him so badly that it hurt.

He blinked as he actually processed the thought, then turned his attention back to the show with a jolt, jamming his piece of cake in his mouth for the sole purpose of avoiding blabbering something dangerously stupid.  It wasn’t exactly the first time such a thought had crossed Bucky’s mind, but he was certain that it had never felt so strong as in that moment, and after everything else that had happened over the past month it scared the hell out of him.  But… as Steve shifted next to him and dug another slice of cake out, never taking his eyes off of the show in the sky, Bucky was reminded of why he put himself through the whole mess in the first place.

The cake still tasted like dirt, and it’d take him at least a month’s worth of work to make up for the spending money he’d put into all of the failures leading up to it, but Bucky knew without a doubt that he was responsible for the happiest Steve had been in months.  It wasn’t quite as gratifying as Rooks had made it sound a couple of weeks prior - but Bucky couldn’t help thinking that it was worth it all the same.

 

**June 1944**

 

The spring of 1944 had been a rough one.

If he was being honest with himself, Bucky would have gone so far as to say that nearly every day had been rough since he’d found himself thick in the shit of the European theatre - and it had all compounded to be even worse since the hell he had somehow lived through in captivity at Kreischberg.  While he was grateful every day for having been rescued from Zola’s table, the nightmares and sense of _wrongness_ that had taken hold of him while the little bastard had pumped him full of poison never stopped.  And even though he was glad as hell that he had another opportunity to see Steve again, Bucky was fairly certain that the punk was bound and determined to put him in an early grave.

At the rate they were going, Bucky thought that Steve had a better chance than the fuckin’ Krauts did.

Trying to cover his best friend’s reckless ass as they tore through HYDRA bases and wiped out their artillery on the regular was bad enough, but when Agent Carter came to them with the orders to relocate and help with the operation to storm the beaches of Normandy, Bucky knew that the chances were good that one of them would snuff it before the battle was over.  But somehow, against all the odds, they’d all made it through the hell that was Omaha Beach, leading a full squadron into the shit and finding a way to come out with more soldiers alive than dead.  Captain America had been a juggernaut, plowing through German forces like a madman as they led the charge through the German lines, and in the chaos, Bucky had been able to fight without restraint as well, bound and determined to keep all of his men alive - but also morbidly curious about what Zola’s gentle ministrations had made him capable of.

The answers would probably end up haunting Bucky just as badly as the tortures of the procedures had… but considering the outcomes (and the fact that somehow no one had seemed to notice the horribly awesome feats that their sergeant was suddenly capable of), he called it worthwhile in the end.

The Howlies were moved back to their own covert missions as soon as victory in France looked like it was imminent; while he never would have said as much to Steve, Bucky was grateful that they got out before there was time to fully tally-up the dead that they left behind.  It was disturbingly easy to write the whole thing off as a victory when you didn’t have time to pay attention to all that you’d lost: but then, that seemed to be the unspoken theme of the Howling Commando’s streak.

As it was, there was no time to dwell on the past; the entire team had made it out largely unscathed, and they went right back to tracking down and destroying HYDRA bases while the Nazis were busy battling the rest of the Allied forces in the South of France.  After regrouping in Azzano they were moved to Yugoslavia, then began the slow, dirty job of working their way north back into Austria.  It wasn’t until one morning while Gabe was transcribing the morning radio announcements over coffee that Bucky really paid attention to the date or its significance - they were fifty miles from the Austrian border, it was June thirteenth, and, he realized with a start, Steve’s birthday was coming up.

Considering the War had already kept Bucky from baking Steve’s cake the year prior, he immediately realized that he had to find a way to pull off getting him the damned thing before the fourth.  While the actual process of cooking wouldn’t be an issue - after all he’d gone through that first year of learning how to make Sarah Rogers’ recipe, he figured he’d sooner forget his name than he would the instructions for her damned cake - finding the ingredients and a kitchen were likely to pose a major issue, especially considering they weren’t likely to be in friendly territory again before the end of August.  

The thought continued to haunt him during his watch that night, while he left half an eye and ear on the woods around them (it was all that he needed, really, given the fact that he could inexplicably see through clearings in the trees at least a mile and a half away, despite how low the moon was) and put the rest of his mind to trying to work out how the hell he was gonna pull off his plan.  

The truth of the matter was, Bucky knew he wouldn’t end up surviving the War - no matter how hard he tried to ignore what was happening to him, the ridiculous abilities he had in hand to hand combat and with his rifle, the way his jacket kept getting tighter while their rations got thinner, he couldn’t deny them outright.  If the War didn’t kill him Zola’s poison would eventually; considering what it had done to the Red Skull, it would probably be for the best for all parties involved.  But that meant that it was entirely likely that this would be the last time he would be able to honor his best pal’s birthday for him, and dammit, he had to find a way to bake Stevie’s cake.

He started out small, knowing that he would have to save up and eventually barter and trade for the baking ingredients when the date eventually came.  As well as Bucky could figure (and he could figure out numbers unreasonably well, nowadays), the sugar rations assigned to him for coffee at each of his meals would add up to just about enough for the cake recipe - a good thing, too, considering how rough each of the towns they skirted on their missions seemed.  Given how hard sugar was to come by in the States, where they hadn’t experienced direct fighting and had hardly been in the thick of the War yet before Bucky had shipped out, he could only imagine how impossible it would have been to have bargained for it.  The rest he figured he would be able to scrounge up easily enough though, provided he saved up enough chocolate and cigarettes.  

The cigarettes weren’t much of a challenge to give up: it seemed that the nicotine barely helped to calm his nerves anymore, and chewing on a toothpick did just as well to keep his hands and mind occupied while on watch, to keep himself from slipping back to the memories of Zola’s table.  The D-rations, though… they were considerably tougher.  While Bucky was beginning to get used to the constant gnawing hunger in his belly, one that was worse even than when he’d gone through his growth spurt as a teen, and then those first few months after he and Steve had first moved out of his parents’ house and had to find a way to make a sack of potatoes stretch for weeks at a time - they were nothing on how he felt, now.

He tried to convince himself that it was because of how rigorous their daily activities were, and how limited their rations had become now that they were regularly traveling through HYDRA-infested lands.  It didn’t explain why Bucky’s uniform was inexplicably getting tighter at the same time as all of his field skills seemed to improve exponentially, but Buck preferred not to acknowledge _those_ changes as they came up.

So he tucked his daily sugar packets away into an empty B-unit container, choking down Dum-Dum’s bitter, sad excuse for coffee without it every morning and trying to ignore the little voice in the back of his head reminding him that despite his efforts, he was still going to run short on sugar when the fourth rolled around.  Nearly two weeks by his count, he realized with no little despair during one of his night watches, cussing under his breath and kicking at a tree root in front of him as he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to get himself out of his pickle.

A downed twig snapped a few dozen yards behind him, and Bucky’s ears perked up in anticipation, his hands automatically moving his rifle into firing position.  Unlike his early days in the war, he felt his heart slowing, his entire body going into hunting mode, as opposed to the panic fight or flight responses he’d initially had.

It was unnerving, how much the weapons factory and the table had changed him.  Sometimes Bucky wished he still got sick over the thought of taking a shot.

Before his mind could wander any further down that dark path, Bucky realized that the footsteps were coming from the camp, and immediately recognized them as being Dum-Dum’s.  He sighed heavily, relaxing his hold on the gun and waiting until the other man was within reasonable earshot to acknowledge him.

“Hey Sarge!” Dugan stage-whispered, his stupid bowler hat coming into view from the brush that he’d been sneaking through.  

At least, Bucky thought, the idiot had the good sense to not sneak up on a fucking sniper.  

“What izzit, Dugan?” He murmured back, watching the surrounding fields closely lest someone decidedly less-friendly picked up on their voices as well.  The likelihood of Bucky having missed scouts close enough to actually hear them was slim-to-none, really, but it was a chance all the same.  “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, camp’s fine,” Dum-Dum responded, stepping up next to Bucky and shouldering his own firearm.  “Just came out to check, see if you were ready to switch watch.”

Bucky frowned at that, glancing skeptically at Dugan’s face.  “My watch ain’t up for another three hours, and it’s Frenchie that’s up next,” he responded slowly.

Dugan shrugged, his moustache quirking oddly as he obviously tried to workout how to recover from his blatant lie being so easily caught out.  “Ah, yeah, I know.  We just - well, I mostly - just wanted to check up on how you were doin’, Barnes.  I noticed the sugar thing over the past few days, figured I’d make sure nothing was up.”

Bucky chewed on his lip as he stared out over the field again, wishing like hell that he had a cigarette to distract himself with and buy some time.  The problem was - despite his nickname, Dum Dum could actually be pretty damned observant, especially when it came to the men in their unit.  And given the fact that he was the only one of them who had been locked away together in Kreischberg _and_ had known Bucky from before in the 107th, Buck knew better than to even try to lie to him.  “C’mon,” he finally said, motioning with his head towards the thicket of forest to the west, “I was plannin’ on doing a perimeter sweep, I’ll tell you while we walk.”

It was mostly the truth: Bucky had been meaning to walk the full perimeter of the camp before he’d been ambushed by Dugan.  He also didn’t like the idea of talking about what was actually bugging him this close to camp - if he concentrated, Buck could make out the quiet voices of the rest of the Howlies gathered around the campfire a few hundred yards away, badly as he tried to ignore how impossible the feat should be.  And if Bucky could hear that well, then Steve definitely could too, given how well the serum had apparently amplified all of his senses.  While Bucky couldn’t think of a single reason for him to be trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, he also didn’t want to risk giving his birthday surprise away by flapping his jaws indiscriminately.  

The two men walked in silence for a good quarter mile, Bucky focusing on the trees above them and the fields that stretched out beyond them, until he was sure that no ears - either enemy or otherwise, were within listening distance.  

“Cap’s birthday is comin’ up on the fourth,” he finally murmured without preamble.

“Spangles’ birthday is actually on the fourth of July?” Dum Dum asked gleefully.  “I thought that was a USO gimmick!”

“It’s not,” Bucky responded with a huff.  “‘n I’m saving sugar cuz I’ve made him a cake every year since his ma died.  I mean to do it again this year, I’m just jiggered as to where the hell I’m gonna get the ingredients for it while we’re stuck out in the ass-end of fuckin’ nowhere.”

Dum Dum looked considerably less amused, at least, frowning at Bucky as he finished his explanation.  “So yer saying you’ve been scrounging your sugar rations so you can bake Cap a birthday cake?”

“Yeah,” Bucky responded, shrugging and surveying the trees ahead of them again, hoping he didn’t look as stupid as he felt.  “‘n storing up shit I can trade for the rest of what I need, next time we’re close enough to a village to give it a shot.  But it won’t mean a damn thing if I don’t figure out how to get enough sugar in the first place.”

“I thought you said you were savin’?”

“I am,” Bucky sighed, “but I didn’t start early enough - I’m gonna end up bein’ short.”

“How short?”  Dum Dum asked conversationally, slowing his walk as he listened to Bucky.

“Thirty-six packets,” Bucky huffed, taking his right hand off of his rifle and rubbing his brow.  “I need twelve extra days.”

“Or ya just needed to say somethin’, Barnes,” Dum Dum huffed.  Bucky looked back at him, frowning in confusion at the broad grin Dugan gave him.  “The sugar’ll be taken care of easy - what else you need?”

“Wha -”

“There’s five other of us gettin’ three packs a day, too,” Dum-Dum pointed out, as if Bucky was an idiot for not having come up with the fact on his own.  “We’ll have you set before the end of the week.”

Bucky slowed to a stop as he gaped at him.  “I couldn’t ask you guys to do that, it’d be shit for morale…”

“Sarge,” Dum-Dum cut him off, shaking his head fondly, “you ain’t asking, I’m volunteering us.  If it wasn’t for Cap, we’d all be dead or still trapped in those damn HYDRA cages - the least we can do is give up a couple days’ sugar rations.”  

Bucky continued to stare like an idiot, both in shock that the rest of the squad would do such a thing and in horror that his dumbass had never thought of it in the first place.

“Besides,” he continued, beginning to move again without waiting for Bucky’s response, “after all the damn hardtack we’ve been stuck eating for the past few months, fresh cake’ll be worth a couple of days of black coffee.”

“Clearly you haven’t drank that shit you call coffee without sugar yet,” Bucky scoffed, gathering his wits and starting to march as well, before Dugan could think better and go back against his promise.

“We’ll deal,” Dum-Dum chuckled.  “What else you need?”

Bucky scrubbed his fingers roughly through his hair, sighing as he realized he had nothing to lose in coming out with it.  “Either butter or shortening, flour, and a can of applesauce,” he muttered.   “I saved up a few packs of raisins so they’re set, and I figure the cigs and chocolate I’ve got will be good enough for the lard and the flour - I’ll just pay extra at the place I find to bake it to steal the spices and the soda…”

“And I’ve got a supply run beginning of the week, provided everything goes to plan - I’ll get a can of applesauce then,” Dum-Dum finished for him, shrugging as if it was simple as that.  He tossed a small cardboard tube Bucky’s way, saluting him when he caught it and insisting that he tell one of them if anything else came up, then turned and made his way back to camp before Bucky could say anything further.

Bucky was completely dumbfounded, before turning the tube over in his hand, shaking his head with a tiny smile when he recognized it as a pack of M&Ms.  The candy didn’t do much to quell his hunger, of course, but it cut down on the headache he’d barely noticed he had.

He was more than a little hesitant to believe that the answer to his dilemma could come together so easily - but over the next week that was exactly what happened.  The Howlies took turns giving up their mealtime sugar rations, insisting that Bucky actually keep his own while the rest of them chipped in.  At one point Jones and Dernier went on a scouting mission and inexplicably came back with a bag of flour, handing it off to Bucky with a wink and a jaunty salute while Steve was busy on his own watch.  And, as promised, Dum-Dum came back from his supply run on the first of July looking insufferably smug, then smuggled an extra D-ration can labeled APPLESAUCE along the side to Bucky that night on patrol.

“Told you we’d take care of ya Sarge,” he said with a grin, jostling Bucky’s shoulder after he’d stood there staring at the can in his hand for a solid ten seconds.  “Grabbed an extra one too, just in case - I hid it under Monty’s tea tins, figured it’d be safe from Cap for at least a few days there.”

“Thanks, Dugan,” Bucky finally responded, his voice embarrassingly thick.

“Least I could do,” Dum Dum chuckled, as if he hadn’t just saved Bucky’s skin.  “You gonna be set, then?”

“Once I find a kitchen, yeah - should be,” Bucky answered, looking down again at the can in wonder.  He gave himself a few more seconds to relax over the fact that he’d come this far in the mission, then moved back to where his gear was stored, hiding the can away and planning out his next course of action.

While Steve and Gabe were busy making sure that reports of the day made it back to Colonel Phillips and brass, Bucky made a point of collecting up the tins from the night’s dinner, cleaning them out as well as he could with water from his canteen.  Baking a number of smaller cakes was going to be annoying as hell, especially since it wasn’t as if he had enough ingredients to fill enough cans that they’d each get their own - but ultimately it was more realistic to use what they had on hand than for Buck to think he’d be able to walk into the nearest town and simply buy a cake tin.

The next morning he loaded his pack with all of the cake ingredients and tins, sneaking his cigarette and chocolate hoards into his jacket pockets and hiding all of his actual equipment in his bedroll.  Luckily they were staying put for another day, while the SSR worked out logistics for their next plan of attack, so Bucky simply had to get himself back into the nearest town and find an oven to borrow.

Sneaking away from the rest of the Howlies wasn’t all that difficult - it wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to get the occasional solo mission, usually for the purposes of scouting a suspected HYDRA base or quietly eliminating Nazi operatives when the brass didn’t want to make it known that they had troops in the area to begin with.  They were quick, classified, and bothered Steve to no end; as much as he hated lying, Bucky knew that it was the perfect cover to give himself an afternoon alone.  He double-checked that his pack had all of the necessary ingredients in it as soon as they’d finished setting up camp for the day, then set off with his rifle and a grim look, pointedly ignoring the grin that Dugan sent him off with and hoping that the idiot didn’t give anything away to Steve before he got back.

It was only a two mile hike to the nearest village, and to Bucky’s luck there was a small cottage set out away from the bulk of the town.  It seemed unassuming enough that he wasn’t overly-worried about danger lurking inside, and the garden was well-enough tended that someone was certain to be living there still.  

Bucky ran through his prepared greeting in his head as he crept out of the edge of the woods and approached the front door of the house, going so far as to practice the German words under his breath.  By that point, he was confident that he was fluent enough to at least carry out a simple conversation.  He preferred to think that it was a result of listening to Gabe’s translations when they came in over the radio and his natural proclivity for picking words up, something he’d always been decent at in school.  The reality was he’d come out of Kreischberg with more nightmares than solid memories, as well as a stronger grip on the German language than he had any reason to have.  He preferred not to think about it too hard.

After shaking the thought of Zola forcefully out of his head, Bucky raised his hand and knocked on the cottage door in front of him, rocking back on his heels and striving for his friendliest expression as he waited for the door to open.  Once it did, he was met with the barrel of a rifle pointed directly in his face.

Bucky stumbled back from the door with a start, throwing his hands up in the air so forcefully that he nearly dropped his pack of supplies.   _“I don’t mean you any harm!”_ He insisted in shaky German, hoping that it would be the reassurance that he was going for.   _“I’m… I’m an American, but I’m here to ask a favor.  I brought cash.”_

The gun’s aim remained on him as a short, round old woman made her way out of the cabin door, glaring Bucky down with so much ferocity that he likely would have surrendered without the gun.   _“American?”_  She finally asked harshly.   _“So you kill Nazis?”_

Bucky swallowed roughly, briefly trying to work his panicked brain into figuring out what the hell the right answer to that kinda question was and keeping his hands harmlessly raised in the air.   _“I… yeah.  We’re tryin’ to fight the Nazis back into Germany.”_  He finally answered, his voice shockingly steady.  He hoped to hell that she was one of the Austrians who had grown tired of Hitler’s shit.

After a beat the woman finally lowered her gun a fraction of an inch, staring at him skeptically.  

_“My troop is a few miles away, in the forest,”_ he continued once it became apparent that she wasn’t going to be speaking anytime soon.    _“We don’t mean any harm to your village at all, I just… needed to borrow a kitchen.”_

_“A kitchen?”_ The woman asked, staring at Bucky as if he’d grown a separate head.  

He sincerely hoped that he hadn’t fucked up his word choice.   _“Yeah, I need to - bake?”_ He continued stupidly. _“For morale.”_

His half-assed explanation was met with an unimpressed scoff.

_"Ma’am - I’ve got money, Francs, and I have things for trade.  I just need to use your kitchen, your oven and some spices, for a couple of hours.”_ Bucky finally begged, feeling his chances of success dwindling by the second.

She surveyed him closely one final time before nodding.   _“Alright.  You can have two hours in the kitchen, but you must leave your weapons at the door.  And I will be watching you - I’ll have you know, I’ve buried five Nazis by my shed for thinking they could rob an old woman.”_

_“I wouldn’t dare, ma’am,”_ Bucky swore fervently, slowly letting his own rifle down off of his shoulder.  If she hated Nazis enough to be killing them herself then Bucky figured he might have a chance of making it out of the cottage in one piece...

The woman finally moved aside, letting Bucky stow his rifle and sidearm inside the door of the cottage then motioning with her head towards the back of the house, following him closely as Bucky made his way through the living room.

The tension barely lifted once Bucky made his way into the kitchen; through the entire process, from lighting the oven to mixing all of the ingredients to transferring the batter to each of the tins, the woman remained in the kitchen, seated at the table with her rifle resting on her knees as she watched Bucky’s every move like a hawk.  

He set each of the tins in the oven to cook, making a mental note of how long each would take to bake properly based on the amount of batter in them (it was remarkably easy, given his newly-enhanced math skills and spatial awareness.  Bucky was thankful, at least, that _something_ good had come out of Zola’s experiments).  As he waited, he scrubbed the bowl that he had borrowed as well as every countertop in the kitchen, until the tiny room was even cleaner than he had found it.

Unfortunately, by the time he finished, there were still a few minutes left for the tins to bake.  He shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, finally glancing back at the kitchen table and acknowledging the woman.   _“You said Nazis have been through the town?”_

_“A while back,”_ she responded shortly.    _“Your Deutsche is very good for an American soldier…”_

Bucky cussed internally, before deciding to stick with the truth.   _“I’ve been stationed in Europe for a long time.  Plus, I was captured for a while and kept in a Nazi prison camp.”_

For a fraction of a second, Bucky thought he saw her expression soften slightly - she hadn’t shot him for being a spy yet, so he couldn’t help figuring he was getting somewhere.  

He was in the middle of pulling the cakes out of the oven when the woman spoke up again.   _“My Markus - the first time the Germans came, they required he come with them to fight for the Third Reich.”_

_“I’m sorry,”_ Bucky murmured sincerely, turning to face her again.  It made a bit more sense, at least - her leariness of him and the fact that she ultimately let him in… Steve had once pointed out that the Germans were the first ones who were over-run by the Nazis, the Austrians were practically in the same boat.

As soon as they were cool enough, Bucky wrapped each of the tins in clean rags and stowed them back in his pack, before handing over his entire collection of Francs and hoarded cigarettes; thankfully the woman had turned down his chocolate, leaving Buck feeling like an idiot for not having eaten it in the first place but sincerely looking forward to having a stash of his own going forward.  Once he was packed up and they had agreed on payment, Bucky gave the woman his thanks and made his way back to the front of the house to leave.

_“Wait,”_ the woman called, stopping Bucky in the doorway of the cottage as he shouldered his rifle.  A few moments later she stepped back out of the kitchen, carrying a package wrapped up in a cloth which she thrust into his arms at the threshold.    _“Take it with you to eat, you’re too skinny.”_  She insisted matter-of-factly, clucking her tongue at Bucky when he stared stupidly at it.

_“I can’t take…”_ he started to argue, already feeling guilty enough for having commandeered her kitchen considering her shabby little cottage and the fact that she clearly lived alone in the secluded village; it didn’t take a genius to figure that she hardly had anything, so taking food felt exceedingly wrong.

His words were cut off by a most-impressive glare, one that was startlingly similar to the one that his ma regularly gave him before she boxed his ears as a kid.

_“Thank you, ma’am,”_ he ended up saying instead, graciously taking the package from her hands and nodding before turning tail towards the forest.  He hardly wanted her to change her mind, or to have any reason to change her mind about not shooting him.

Luckily, he made it back under tree cover without any issue, and after marching for half a mile he felt confident that he was both out of harm’s way and free of any scouts.  After giving the area a proper bit of examination he actually took a moment to unwrap his parcel, gaping when he found half a loaf of brown bread and an enormous chunk of white cheese inside.  Between the relief of having pulled his mission off and the awe of having fresh bread and cheese instead of the shit they regularly ate out of ration cans, Bucky’s hunger roared back to life - within minutes the cloth was completely empty.  He almost felt guilty for not having saved any for the rest of the Howlies as he started back towards their camp, but as he tucked the rag into his pack and caught the whiff of cinnamon inside, he figured he’d earned the indulgence for a change.

It was difficult waiting until after dinner to bring out the contents of his pack, but it seemed only fair to wait until everyone was back at camp, given the way the rest of the team had chipped in to make the cakes possible in the first place.  Besides - Bucky had gotten good at keeping secrets from Steve by that point, better than he liked to admit, so he was fairly certain that the surprise was still safe when he finally pulled the cans out around the fire that night.

He handed the first, largest tin off to Steve first of course, smirking at the look of confusion on his face as Steve pulled the cover off.  “I figured if your dumb ass could beat the odds and actually make it through another year, least I could do was get you somethin’ nice for it,” Bucky quipped, hoping that the smart comment would hide his real feelings from the rest of the guys.

Steve peeled the lid off and stared into the container in silence for a few moments, before closing his eyes and raising it to his nose to take a sniff, grinning stupidly as he inhaled the scent of cinnamon.  “Apple cake?” He asked quietly, his eyes shining suspiciously as he opened them and glanced at Bucky.

“Happy Birthday, Cap,” Buck responded with a nod, quickly turning his attention back to the pack so he could start distributing the rest of the tins to the others, before he gave anything more away.   He half-regretted doing this in front of the Howlies, especially now when he saw the soft way that the fire lit up Steve’s face… but ultimately it was probably for the best.

God only knew what stupid shit Bucky might have said or done if not for the audience.

Morita and Dugan got a B-ration to share, along with Gabe and Dernier, while Monty got his own smaller tea-tin full of cake that they all ribbed him about.  Once everyone had dug in, Bucky leaned back into his spot, zoning out as he stared into the fire and half-listened to the rest of the men shoot the shit and enjoy their dessert.  It was nice, at least, to know that all of the stress that had gone into baking the damned things was appreciated.

“Where’s yours?” Steve suddenly asked, breaking Bucky from his reverie.

“Oh,” Bucky started stupidly, pushing his hair back from his forehead and trying to act nonchalant about it.  “I was one short on the cans - I’ll be alright.”

“Like hell,” Steve scoffed, patting the ground beside him.  “Grab your fork and pull up a pew.”

Bucky was torn by the request; on one hand, his stomach was grumbling its usual complaint, exacerbated by the fact that the rest of the camp was eating around him.  On the other hand, he was pretty sure that he’d rather chew sawdust than eat damned apple cake, especially if it was taking away from Steve’s obvious enjoyment.

“Nah, I’ve got a couple D-rations I might have later for myself, but it’s _your_ cake,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head.  

“Yeah, and I wanna share it with my best pal…” Steve murmured, quietly enough so that it was drowned out by the conversation that had suddenly started up amongst the rest of the group on the opposite side of the fire.  “Get your ass over here,”  he added more forcefully, the stubborn line forming between his brows that said he wasn’t going to end up taking no for an answer.

“You should prolly follow Cap’s orders, Barnes,” Dum Dum said from the other side of the fire, giving Bucky a traitorous smirk as he shoved another forkful into his mouth.  

Bucky glared across the flames at Dugan, immediately regretting ever having gotten his fat mouth involved in the whole thing - but he also grabbed up his fork and moved the couple of feet closer to Steve, taking the damned can and dutifully scooping a bite out for himself.

The cake was every bit as awful as Bucky could remember, but between the taste and the texture and the pleased little way that Steve bumped his shoulder before going back in for his own bite, it reminded him so forcefully of home that for one horrifying moment Bucky thought that he might cry.  He hastily pushed the can back towards Steve, staring blankly into the campfire as he chewed and tried to get his head in check.

“I’d say it’s a shame there aren’t any fireworks,” Steve started, either oblivious to the emotional meltdown that Bucky was in the middle of or trying to draw everyone’s attention away from it, “but given the circumstances…”

Dernier took a breath, his eyes lighting up as he opened his mouth to respond to Steve’s comment, but all of the other voices in the circle interrupted him with a resounding “NO.”

Once they’d finished laughing their asses off at the outburst, Dum Dum started in with stories of how impressive the fireworks had been over Boston Harbor while he was growing up, leading to the rest of the Americans yapping about the fourth in their hometowns while also getting in some clever digs at Monty whenever the opportunity arose.  Bucky was painfully glad for the distraction, even as Steve nudged him with his elbow and handed the tin over again.

By the time dinner finally wrapped up and the campfire began to die down, Bucky volunteered himself for first watch, despite the fact that it was Morita that was up; aside from Steve, it was obvious that the rest of the team was dragging, and in the end he went so far as to pull rank to make sure the other idiots would quit arguing with him and go to bed instead.

The quiet stillness of his first perimeter sweep was a pleasant relief from the rollercoaster of emotions he felt like he’d lived through over the weeks leading up to that night - once he was sure that they weren’t in any immediate danger, he picked a lookout point downwind of the camp and got comfortable against the trunk of a tree, resting his rifle against his legs as he pulled one of the cigarettes he hadn’t needed to trade out of its case and took a long, glorious drag off of it.

After going so long without, the smoke was so good that Bucky barely noticed the footsteps coming up from behind him until they were only a few paces away.  He started, smashing the cigarette into the moss beneath him and clamoring to his feet as he recognized Steve’s bemused face.  

“Y’know you don’t have to put those out around me anymore,” he said softly, sidling up next to Bucky and leaning against the tree.  “Though I’m not too thrilled that our watch was sleepin’ at the switch…”

“I smelled you comin’ so I knew it was you,” Bucky lied, shrugging and shouldering his rifle as he slouched against the tree as well.  “And I’ll be fine for a few more hours.  Shouldn’t you be gettin’ some shut-eye, though?  We’ve got a pretty early march in the morning.”

“I’ll be fine, Buck,” Steve responded.  “Not like I need a ton of sleep.  If you want…”

“You’re not pullin’ back-to-back night watches, especially not on your birthday, punk,” Bucky interrupted.  “I got this.”

Steve huffed a short laugh at that, shaking his head as he looked up at the stars for a moment before turning back to Bucky.  “Alright, fine.  You can have the damned watch, jerk.”  Between the moonlight and the smile that Steve gave him, there was a second where Bucky could hardly breathe.  “I just… I wanted t’come out and say thanks, at least.  For tonight.”

“Course,” Bucky replied automatically, “least I could do for my best pal, right?”

Steve was quiet for a long moment, looking around the woods surrounding them closely.  Bucky opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was worried about, but when Steve turned back to him, the look on his face was so intense that it knocked the wind out of him.  At least an eternity passed with the two of them facing each other in the moonlight, waiting for _something_ to happen; Bucky had no clue as to what it was hanging there in the air, but he knew it was too important for him to say anything to interrupt it.

It was Steve who broke the spell, just as abruptly as he’d started it - he blinked harshly a couple of times, then reached out and pulled Bucky into a tight hug.

The sensation of being completely engulfed by his friend was one that was totally foreign to Bucky - their entire lives it had primarily been Bucky who had been the tactile one, the one who would regularly throw his arm around Stevie’s thin shoulders.  At first, he remained tense in Steve’s arms, his face pressed into the massive, hard chest that was so unlike anything he’d ever really wanted.  But just as quickly as the surprise had hit him, Bucky’s nose picked up the scent underneath the gunpowder and sweat that hung on Steve’s clothing: somehow he still smelled the pencil shavings and lye soap and a dirty little apartment back in Bushwick.

Bucky hadn’t realized how badly he’d still been missing _his_ Stevie until that instant, and he immediately wrapped his arms around his friend’s waist, squeezing back just as hard as he was being held, as if they were both clinging to the moment.  He wasn’t sure how long they held onto each other, or even who it was that broke the hold first, but it felt like an unspoken weight that had been hanging over them since Azzano lifted, at least a little.

“Happy Birthday, Stevie,” he murmured thickly.

Steve chuckled softly, reaching over and squeezing Bucky’s left shoulder fondly. “It was Buck, thanks to you.”  And just like that, he nodded, turned on his heel, and made his way back toward camp, leaving Bucky wanting for something that he couldn’t even begin try to figure out.

Bucky knew he wouldn’t survive the War.  He wouldn’t get to go back home to Brooklyn, and he sure as hell wouldn’t ever be able to make any kind of real life with Steve - not like his stupid, irrational heart seemed to want him to.  But he could watch his six and keep him safe from HYDRA and Nazi fire, and he could be a damned good friend and make him happy in the field, even with shit as inconsequential as a birthday cake.

Bucky set his shoulders and turned back out to face the woods around him, surveying the land and moving his rifle back into ready-position.

He could also convince himself that those things were enough for him.

 

**May 2018**

 

As usual Tank had met Bucky at the door, his broad golden tail wagging hard enough that it threatened to knock over the umbrella stand in the entryway as Bucky nudged him gently aside and stowed his grocery bags safely under his arm before the dog could jump at them.

“Alright bud, okay… it’s good to see you, too,” he chuckled, stepping out of his shoes and making his way into the living room.  He’d been pleasantly surprised to see Steve’s loafers already stowed in their usual spot, and called out as he made his way towards the kitchen.

“Hey Stevie!  I stopped at Trader Joe’s to get the stuff for the bolognese like you asked, but the guy at the end of the old fish market was having a sale on swordfish and I was able to talk him down for the steaks, so I thought maybe we could do that tonight instea…” he trailed off awkwardly when he found Steve seated at the kitchen table giving him a wry smirk from over the top of his StarkPad.

A feminine chuckle came out of the speakers as Bucky struggled to put the situation together.

“Sorry,” he whispered loudly, feeling like a total putz for interrupting whatever interview Steve must have been in the middle of, “I thought you’d have done that this morning.”

Steve shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair.  “Hey Buck, it’s alright - and we were supposed to, but the photographer cancelled cuz the rain last night apparently made Prospect no good to shoot in, so Amelia here said we could just do the interview remotely instead.”

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes,” the voice called out of the StarkPad speakers.  “Sorry for the change in plans - you’re welcome to join us, if you’d like.”

Steve gave him a pleasant smile like he was agreeing with her, but otherwise remained silent on the topic.  Bucky considered it for a second as he moved towards the refrigerator to put things away - there had been a frankly ridiculous number of media outlets clamoring for interviews with Steve in light of his 100th birthday coming up, and in the end he’d agreed to give only a single comprehensive one to TIME magazine.  Bucky knew how much it meant to him, and that Steve would probably be more than happy to share in the storytelling, but after the media circus that had surrounded their wedding the year prior Bucky thought he’d had more than enough interviews for one lifetime.  “Nah,” he finally answered as he turned away from the fridge, setting the produce out on the kitchen counter as he enunciated towards the StarkPad so the reporter would hear, “I’ll leave the talking to the birthday boy over there… let me just finish putting this stuff away and I’ll be outta your hair.”

He did, though, pause on his way to the pantry to steal a quick kiss for a proper hello.

The interview continued on as Bucky finished putting the shopping away and skillfully avoided tripping over the impatient dog as Tank continued to get underfoot.  He had half a mind to stick around and look over what veg they had in the freezer so that he could plan out the rest of dinner, when the interviewer asked a question that he actually paused to hear the answer to.

“Alright, considering all of the eras, then, what would you say your favorite food is?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Steve responded brightly, “Bucky’s apple cake.  And you can print that I woulda said that, even if he hadn’t been standing here eavesdropping.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue that he _wasn’t_ eavesdropping, but between the broad grin and the saucy wink that Steve gave him he wasn’t able to do much but duck his head and hope that his cheeks were nowhere near as red as they were warm.  While Steve had always appreciated the damned things, hearing him say as much so publicly still sent a bright jolt of satisfaction and pride down Bucky’s spine.

“Actually, it was Sarah Rogers’ apple cake,” he corrected, speaking up enough to make sure that the microphone on the StarkPad would pick it up.  “I just do my best to recreate it for him.”

The reporter had some bright, teasing comment about fact-checking, but it was lost on Bucky, who was too busy watching and interpreting Steve’s reaction to pay attention to much else.  Instead of laughing it off or explaining further, as Bucky might have expected, Steve had gone absolutely still, a small frown line forming between his eyebrows.  He licked his lips, staring at Bucky for a second before looking down at the StarkPad.  “Nah, don’t listen to him… he’s just tryin’ to pretend he’s humble.  Buck’s always had his own recipe.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue again, but snapped it shut just as quickly, recognizing what Steve was saying with a sickening jolt: despite his best attempts, Buck had apparently _never_ gotten the damned recipe right, and Steve had just been humoring him over all of the years.  It was a pretty benign fib, as far as dishonesties went, but it hurt like hell all the same.

“Yeah, well…” Bucky stuttered, “it was inspired by Sarah’s cakes, at least.”  He barreled on with the comment before Steve could interject again.  “Anyway, I’ve got a data set I promised I’d get crunched for work before the weekend, so I’m gonna head upstairs and get to work.  It was good to meet you, ma’am.”

He fled the room before either Steve or the journalist could say anything otherwise, with Tank hot on his heels all the way up to the third floor.  Bucky let the dog into the room at the top of the stairs, shutting the door quietly behind him with a sigh and trying his best to get his emotions under control as he took a seat at his computer desk, numbly powering up his laptop.  He probably should have felt guilty for lying about the spreadsheet to get away from Steve, especially considering the fact that he’d finished the damned thing before noon that day, which meant it was just a matter of staring at the blinking cursor and moping; but in light of what had happened, Bucky couldn’t help feeling like he’d earned a bit of self-pity.  Tank, apparently agreeing with him, huffed an enormous sigh as he dropped his head on Bucky’s foot, looking up at him with wide, soulful eyes.

“Right?” Buck asked, checking behind him to make sure that the office door was shut before continuing in a lower voice.  “I mean… the least he could have done was come clean with it, instead of leadin’ me on for all these years.”

Tank watched him silently for a few seconds, before raising an eyebrow and deliberately licking Bucky’s ankle in agreement.  Bucky crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his desk chair, sighing as well as he continued stewing over the information.  It was a while before he realized that the dog was _still_ licking his foot.

“Alright, okay - that’s not actually helping, y’know.”

Thankfully Tank stopped, huffing again and pressing his head against Bucky’s ankle in commiseration.  They stayed like that for at least a half an hour, each pouting in silence, until Tank’s ears perked up and Bucky heard Steve’s familiar footsteps coming up the stairs.

Bucky minimized the spreadsheet as he heard the office door creak open behind him, biting his lip when he realized it meant the wallpaper to the laptop was displayed on the screen instead.  It was an off-centered scan of a black and white photobooth strip, from the roll that they’d ended up using for their Engagement photos (Stark still gave them hell for being so Bohemian about it, but Steve’d had a point… it had fit them perfectly, and Bucky couldn’t imagine them ever having gotten a more heartfelt shot with a professional photographer).  Still, given the circumstances he’d fled the kitchen under, it seemed embarrassingly maudlin to be sitting and staring at the two of them kissing over Bucky’s ring, especially now as he listened to Steve’s quiet footfalls pad into the room behind him.

Before he could think of a reasonable way to change it, an enormous pair of arms were draped gently over his shoulders.  Bucky snorted quietly, and was about to make a smart comment about how similar Steve and Tank looked, all broad muscle and floppy blonde hair lying hangdog across Bucky, but the joke was interrupted by Steve’s lips pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.

“The cake thing really bothered you,” he murmured after a moment, nuzzling Bucky’s hairline.

“Not _really_ ,” Bucky contended, shrugging and turning his head enough that he could see Steve’s face in his peripheral vision.  “But it did a little,” he conceded after a beat.

“Why?” Steve asked, his voice an odd mixture of both concern and regret.

Bucky sighed, before sitting forward a bit and spinning the desk chair around so that they were actually facing each other.  Tank moved his head so that Bucky could swivel without hitting him, but otherwise remained firmly planted at his feet.  “Just,” Bucky started, “I put a hell of a lot of work into getting it right the first time, I guess.  And then every time after, if we’re gonna be honest.  So - I mean, finding out now, after all these damn years, that I _never_ got it right in the first place?  That was a kick in the teeth.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t get it right, Buck,” Steve sighed after a moment.  “I just said it wasn’t the same cake.”

“Yeah,” Bucky responded, “but that was kinda the whole point in the first place, Stevie.  To make sure you had the cake you liked for your birthday.”

Steve scrubbed at his face in frustration while Bucky dropped his gaze to his lap, feeling even worse over the way that he was handling things and compounding on the already shitty feeling that was growing in his chest.  He wished like hell that he could rewind the clock somehow, to go back to half an hour earlier when he’d just kept his damned mouth shut and let Steve finish his interview in peace, then go about the rest of their lives in happy ignorance.

“Alright,” Steve finally sighed, breaking the awkward silence and kneeling down to take Bucky’s hands in his own, “you want the gospel truth?  I was gonna ask you guys not to celebrate my birthday that year, or try to figure out an excuse or a place to go that day, just to try to avoid it.”

Bucky had already glanced up with a frown when Steve had started talking, but when the words he’d said actually processed it deepened in confusion.  “What, really?” He asked incredulously, unable to even imagine himself letting Steve get away with such a thing.  “Why?”

“It’s just… I missed her so damned much, Buck.  And I was so afraid that your ma or Becca or someone was gonna end up baking that fuckin’ cake, and - I mean, you’d all done so much for me already, I wouldn’t’ve said a word against it, but the idea of eating it when she couldn’t be there to share it, when she’d _just_ left?  It woulda ruined everything.”

He cleared his throat harshly, and Bucky pulled his right hand out of his grasp with a gentle smile, reaching out and stroking the side of Steve’s face when he realized how bright his eyes looked.  “And then,” Steve continued after a pause, shaking his head and grinning fondly up at Bucky, “then we got up on that roof, and you pulled out your cake.  And it wasn’t the same one so it didn’t have that baggage, but it was still so damned good, and I knew you must’ve put all kinds of work into it cuz you couldn’t cook for shit.”

“Hey!” Bucky interrupted indignantly, his voice surprisingly thick with emotion as well.

Steve ignored him completely.  “That was the best gift you could’ve possibly gotten me, Buck.  Just - knowin’ how much you cared about me, and having that little thing to help move on from everything else that was going on…” He heaved a shaky sigh, rubbing his face lightly against Bucky’s palm for a moment before soldiering on.  “So yeah, I meant it when I said downstairs, it’s _your_ cake that has always been my favorite, even better than Ma’s.  And I think if she’d known the whole story behind it, she wouldn’t mind me sayin’ so at all.”

Bucky swallowed thickly, before clearing his throat and using his left hand to pull Steve towards him.  “C’mere, sweetheart,” he muttered, glad when Steve followed easily and climbed up into Bucky’s lap.  The desk chair squealed under them in protest of the added weight, and Bucky held his breath for a second before exhaling in relief… he’d reinforced the damned thing when he’d first bought it, after an unfortunate accident with the last piece of furniture he’d been stupid enough to buy from an office supply store, but this was their first time officially testing its durability.

If Steve noticed Bucky’s concern over the two of them busting (another) piece of furniture, it didn’t show - within seconds he was settled into the chair as well, fitting shockingly well in Bucky’s lap, despite his frankly ridiculous size.  Once he’d finished moving Bucky wrapped his arms tightly around Steve’s chest, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths as the physical contact finally began to leach the feeling of disappointment out of his bones.

“Did you _really_ know how to bake it this whole time, though?” Bucky asked before he could stop himself, clearing his throat as Steve looked down at him in confusion.  “Just… cuz I spent three weeks tryin’ to figure that damned recipe out.”

“I did,” Steve admitted quietly, sitting back a fraction but staring at the front of Bucky’s t-shirt as his cheeks turned pink.  “It was in that history notebook that Ma left for me; she made sure to write down all of the important dates and facts about her and Dad, and a few recipes she knew I’d want.  Plus, she made sure to show me how to actually bake the thing once - well, once the doctors told her there wasn’t anything left to do about the consumption.”

Bucky hummed quietly in response, tracing his fingers in nonsensical patterns over the broad expanse of Steve’s back.  He vaguely remembered how excited Steve had been to get his personal effects locker back from the old SSR archives when they’d first been released into the world, and he’d known that there were a few mementoes that his ma had left behind for him, but it had never felt right to ask about any of the specific contents outside of what Steve had willingly shown him.

“Ya know,” he murmured, “that was the first time I realized that I was in love with you.”  If Steve was at all surprised by the admission he didn’t show it, he just gave Bucky a small smile and waited for him to continue.  “I mean - I think I fell a long time before that, but it wasn’t until I’d spent a couple of weeks eating shitty cakes that I was able to admit it to myself.  Well, and one of the guys at the factory caught me choking them down every day and figured it was my girl learning how to cook for me.”

Steve chuckled wetly against Bucky’s shoulder.  “Yeah, I know what you mean.  I think I finally knew the day you convinced me to move in with you.”

Bucky shook his head, pulling Steve a bit closer as he silently lamented all of the time they’d wasted in the past - it was hardly the first time that he’d thought as much, as they’d both expressed regret for not having come clean with their feelings for one another sooner, but it seemed that every time they talked about their relationship before the ice it dredged up once again how stupid they’d been throughout the years.  He was happy as hell now, of course, and knew that Steve would say the same; but the idea that they might not have ever gotten to experience it, given how close both of their dumbasses had come to dying over the years...

“I can make it tonight, if you want?  Ma’s cake, I mean.”  Steve murmured after a long beat, interrupting his thoughts.  It was on the tip of Bucky’s tongue to say fuck no, that he’d had more than enough apple cake for the rest of his life, especially in light of the new information, but the words got caught in his throat when he looked up and saw the bright, earnest smile on Steve’s face.  “I know it doesn’t make up for all that trouble you went to, but… just, if you wanted to try it again.  I can make it for dessert, for a change.”

And hell - there was no way Bucky could refuse the punk, not when he was offering like that.  “Yeah, alright Stevie,” he finally responded quietly, his lips curling into a smile again as he grabbed Steve’s broad chin gently.  “That sounds swell - but I think I need a different kinda sugar, first.”

Steve was all too happy to go along with the request, leaning forward easily and meeting Bucky’s lips with a smile that was broad enough that Bucky could feel it, even as he deepened the kiss.  Steve’s lips parted automatically, and Bucky couldn’t help but sigh as their tongues slid gently against one another and Steve’s fingers tangled gently in his hair.

Even with the different recipe, Bucky was relatively certain that he was still going to hate the fucking apple cake - but for this: a lap full of happy, sappy Steve?  That was more than worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my beta @warpedellipsis for looking this over, especially so close to the posting deadline, to my SBB artist @rayskeptic for the awesome header and recipe cards for the fic, and of course to the mods at The Stucky Library who put in all of the work of putting the Big Bang together this year!


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